


From marred and married men

by venom_for_free



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Background Otayuri, Bad Thoughts, Dom/sub, Drama, Heavy BDSM, Infidelity, JJ suffers a lot in this but he is also an absolute asshole, M/M, Obsession, One Shot, Sexual Content, This is nasty, a lot of hurt and very little comfort, background JJ/Bella, dom!Yuri, escord service, heavy kink, look - Freeform, no happy ending, questionable morale, repressed sexuality, sub!JJ
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:07:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26900395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venom_for_free/pseuds/venom_for_free
Summary: Jean can't understand himself. He grabs a yogurt and pretends life is normal as he stalks up the stairs. The laptop is secured with two passwords now because Bella learned the first one by accident. So Jean pretends it's for business reasons. He's not sure she believes it.While it boots up, he locks his door, locks his heart, locks his feelings away. Far away. Then, he opens his pants. God can't see him with the lights off, but just to be sure, he keeps his hand under the table.--or: Jean married Isabella because he felt like he had to, but all his life, he wanted to be controlled by beautiful, fragile men instead. Over an escort service, he books Tiger, who fucks up his heart, his brain and, in the end, his life.--Mind the tags.
Relationships: Jean-Jacques Leroy/Isabella Yang, Jean-Jacques Leroy/Yuri Plisetsky, Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 10
Kudos: 28





	From marred and married men

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends. After a bunch of lighthearted works, I felt like I had to make this. So ... Enjoy.  
> However, please mind the tags. I don't want to read any complaining in the comments xD  
> This was written for a bunch of lovely friends of mine, who by the way deserve the world.  
> Thank you, Superfan Team. ♥

Jean's hand shakes when he grabs his mobile. He doesn't even know why, after all, it's just a call and he calls a lot of people almost every day, so how is this different? 

Except it is because he usually doesn't call people for sex or companionship or physical favors. He doesn't even know what to name it. Sin. It's sin. That much is clear. But after that obvious part, he's lost. 

He drops the phone, walks out of the home office and down the stairs. There's Isabella with little Aliénor on her chest. They both smile as he walks past and Jean smiles back, even though he shouldn't. He should not pretend things are okay. He should come clean, tell his wife he loves her but not like that, and leave. Take the child? Leave the child? Leave everything. Bella understands her better, anyway. 

Jean can't even understand himself. He grabs a yogurt and pretends life is normal as he stalks up the stairs again. The laptop is secured with two passwords now because Bella learned the first one by accident. So Jean pretends it's for business reasons. He's not sure she believes it. 

While it boots up, he locks his door, locks his heart, locks his feelings away. Far away. Then, he opens his pants. God can't see him with the lights off, but just to be sure, he keeps his hand under the table. 

Deep in the finances>taxes>summer2017 folder is another folder, password locked. It says tax returns but contains a library of gay porn that would put Alexandria to shame. Jean clicks to open it. Even though it's a lot of data, there's not a single face. He's careful with his porn, can't afford seeing who he is doing this to. Doing it with? No idea. 

The one with the lithe body he loves the most. The movie is titled agape, but there's nothing innocent about the way he fucks a guy twice his size. His hair is long enough to cover the pink nipples, so Jean can see it, even without faces. He looks like a girl, except he doesn't. The internet calls it androgynous. Jean calls it a trap. Although, that is another thing on the internet and they use the term in an even more vile manner than he does. So Jean tries not to think about it at all. It's sin and it's dark and he's doomed because this is something he can't speak about in his confessionals. 

Maybe, Jean thinks, if he keeps telling himself he likes the boy because he looks like a girl, maybe God won't hate him. But deep down, he knows that's not true. He fists his cock, nonetheless. Because otherwise, he wouldn't manage to get off. His dick just won't get hard for girls, not even when they bent over in their short skirts. Once a week, Jean swallows the little blue pill to get himself started, so Bella won't know. His erections are painful then and it's a fight to cum for her, but it was enough to gift them a beautiful daughter, so Jean is proud of his sacrifices. 

He doesn't feel any pain now. Guilt? Oh yes. Tons of guilt. But not even the greatest boulder on his shoulders is enough to bring the hardness in his pants down when he looks at pretty boys going to town on tall men. Agape could destroy him, and Jean would thank him on his knees. 

It's quick, it's clean, it's full of analytical passion. And it's empty. Jean pumps his cock as if he means it, as if the little demon is shoving his insides around. He’s never dared to put a finger into himself, even though he  _ craves _ . 

Video two and his dick jumps in his hand. The big guy is on all fours and his joy is audible. Which is a problem. Because one level below is Jean's wife with their daughter, and he doesn't know how to explain the noises. Heavy-hearted, he turns down the volume. Why didn't he bring his headphones? 

Doesn't matter. He doesn't need to hear them. Jean greedily follows the movement with his eyes. In and out. In and out. It's hypnotic. It's enchanting. It's—

His stomach clenches and his hand is suddenly covered in a white sticky mess. There's no relief, just less pressure. Fuck. But it's something. He sinks back into his chair and breathes deeply. Below him, Bella calls for dinner. 

\-- 

When he grabs the phone again, he's alone in the house. The website is open and Jean begins to click through the profiles. He stills when he sees  _ him _ , a young god, a boy made for lust and pleasure. Jean has never seen a face to Agape. But if he had, he'd probably look like this person. Guy. Boy. Man? 

Tiger is beautiful. He looks like a woman, too, but muscular and boyish all the same. Jean doesn't even realize he dialed until a voice greets him. Baranovskaya is a name he forgets as quickly as he hears it. His brain isn't with him, anyway. She asks what he wants and he stumbles his way through the conversation. 

It's clumsy. Pathetic, really. He is ashamed of himself and can't believe how hard that gets him. In no time, he's palming his cock. Miss Barawhatever is probably used to it. Jean tries not to pant into the receiver like the disgraceful dog he is, so needy he wants to burst. Why can he never be so hard for his wife? Why is it always small demon boys? 

"So you want to meet up with Tiger?" 

"Yes." Jean has to cut himself short or else she'll definitely know what he's up to. 

"Fine. And you are …?" 

"No name." 

The voice sighs dramatically. "Sir, we send our boys and girls out to accommodate people in their own homes or let them invite their guests into their private space. You  _ will  _ provide a name if you want to meet up with Tiger or anyone else. This is a basic protection. Don't like it? Don't buy here. We don't depend on the money of people who—" 

"Fine. Fine. Fine. I'm, uhm …" 

"Sir, if you give me the wrong name, you will be banned for life. If you fail to show up, you will be banned for life. If you don't pay—the entire sum, cash, upfront—guess what?" She is no nonsense, no bullshit. Jean appreciates that. For a tiny moment, he wishes it would be the voice of a man talking so sternly to him. He'd have gotten off already. 

So he chokes out his name. It's half a moan, and he's sure she knows what he is up to. "Jean-Jacques Leroy." 

For a second, there is silence. Then, "Sir, I don't care who you think you are. I don't care what you want to do to our boys and girls as long as it complies to the guidelines. But when you talk to me, you. Will. Not. Pleasure. Yourself. Understood?" She has to be some sort of dominatrix. Jean whines and takes his hand out of his pants. 

"Yes, mistress." He heard that in one of the heterosexual films he tried to force himself to enjoy. They quickly drifted to rough, hard, demeaning sex, which was no more or less God honoring than gay porn, so Jean gave up quickly. He kept the interest for the tone, though.

"Listen here, you disgrace. I'm not your mistress. Being allowed to call me that is an honoring privilege. You are just a useless street rat with the ability to maneuver handling a mobile phone. You are worth less than the dirt beneath my shoes, Jean." A pause, maybe she's gauging a reaction. Then, her voice is back, sounding less venomous but just as strict. "I see. I'll let Tiger know you're into this."

His hand is kneading the front of the expensive pants again, but Jean isn't outright masturbating. "Thank you, mistress." 

"Don't call me that." 

"I'm sorry, mistress." He can't help himself. It's not like he wants to enrage her, but Jean doesn't feel right calling her anything else. She seems to accept that, though, since this time she huffs instead of berating him. Which is too bad, honestly. "Can … can Tiger …" 

"Yes, he can. He will, if you're a good boy and pay well. Now make an appointment so I can give my attention to someone more worthy of my time, you failure." 

Jean clenches, curls around his kneading hand. Why does she have to be a woman? Fuck. She'd be so good to him. He'd be so good for her. When he manages to make an appointment for the weekend, there's already a wet spot in his pants. Jean wants to trail his finger through it, lick it up. He's filled with the dark desire to taste himself, substituting the taste of others he can't have. 

"Mistress," he whines after she confirms his details, about to hang up. "Mistress, please, I need to cum. Can I?" He doesn't physically need the  _ 'okay' _ of that person. But mentally. More fluid is soaking into the front of his boxers, Jean is staring at Tiger's photo again. 

"No. Not today, not tomorrow, not for the rest of the week. From now on, you're only allowed to cum when Tiger tells you to. Understood?" 

"But mistress, I have a wife!" 

"Good. Maybe she'll leave your disgusting, cheating ass over it. Men like you don’t deserve the affection of women. You're a pig, a dog, and you'll behave like one! Tiger has your leash now, and you will listen, you pathetic nobody!" 

Jean sobs into the receiver now. "Thank you … thank you, mistress." She hangs up on him and he breaks into a full-on cry. He's a toddler. He's a full grown man. A disgusting piece of shit. And she was kind enough to tell him. 

When he squeezes his base to choke off an impending orgasm, it feels like absolution.

\--------- 

Ducked low, Jean weasels through the streets. He left Bella and Aliénor at home to meet Tiger in a cafe. If Jean is good and leaves a great impression, he might get to play. 

The fairy sits in a corner booth, hoodie on and jacket thrown over. He doesn't look like an escort. He doesn't look like a dominus. He looks like someone barely out of school, and Jean hates himself a little more for his throbbing cock. How can one person be so twisted? What did he do to deserve this? The website states he's 24, so he looks younger than his actual age. That's something. 

Jean walks up to him, and Tiger gives him a once over. Somehow, in his three piece suit, expensive enough to buy a small car with, he feels underdressed. With the way Tiger looks at him, Jean knows immediately what a useless piece of dirt he is. If he's lucky, the dom will spit on him. Jean pulls out a chair and sits down, but immediately a foot lands against his shin. 

"Did I tell you to sit?" A growl. Tiger earns his name already. "You don't deserve to sit. You will stand there like the loser you are." 

Awkward. People are looking at him, standing next to a seemingly Russian punk. Jean can't hide his erection now, and even though his lower body points towards the wall, he can feel the entire restaurant starting.  _ Look at this dude, popping a boner over a conversation with a teenager.  _ Jean whimpers. He hopes someone says it out loud. 

Tiger looks him up and down again, eyes lingering on the bent fabric. "When did you touch yourself for the last time?" 

Heat rises into his cheeks. This isn't how you should start an introduction in a public cafe. When he tries to speak, Jean moans. It's excruciating; people turn, he can feel it. But Tiger only raises an eyebrow, prompting him to give a proper answer. "When … when I was on the phone … with mistress Baranovskaya." He ended up looking up her name and rereading it again and again until he could pronounce it without fail. Maybe that would impress her next time. 

One of the slender eyebrows falls, the other stays up. "You masturbated, talking to miss Baranovskaya?" How much more red can Jean get? He nods. "You really are a sick bastard." Tiger looks around. Oh God, does he want to leave now? Did Jean fuck up already? "Pay for my stuff. Then follow me out. Make sure you walk behind me." 

Like an eager puppy, Jean runs off, pays the bill, doesn't care about the tent in his pants. It's a part of town where no one knows him. And even if they did, maybe they would finally take action against someone as perverted and lost as him. 

With quick steps, Tiger guides him to his own apartment. It's a loft of ridiculous proportions. Jean wonders how much the man makes. Judging on the rate he's carrying around in an open envelope on the inside of his suit, a lot. 

Tiger sits down on a sofa too big for one and not big enough for two. He points at the floor in front of his knees and Jean runs to kneel there. "Undress." 

His eyebrows shoot up. Why? Jean isn't brave enough to ask. He takes off his clothes, folds them, puts them to the side. Months of rigorous training are visible, something he needs on the side of his demanding job. From between his legs, what he considers a decent sized dick, is begging for attention. 

Tiger leans back and kicks Jean's chest, hard enough to steal his breath but not hard enough to hurt. Not for long. "The money." It's handed over with great care and respect. Tiger takes it and begins to count, while the sole of his boot presses down on Jean's aching dick. Maybe he will be allowed to cum against it? 

Once the money is checked, Tiger takes his time to mark every single note with a pen to see if it's real. They are. Of course. Jean got them fresh out of the bank machine. As soon as the beautiful man is happy with his pay, he smacks the bundle against Jean's face, then stands and leaves him there to store it away. 

Jean is panting already, even though nothing touched him intimately. Tiger barely looked at him, except to judge. He returns with a bunch of papers and a pen. "This is my work contract. It states what I will do and won't do. It also leaves room for what you will do and won't. Fill this out. Right now. Once you're done, I'll read it over and decide how to proceed. The entire time, you'll keep yourself hard. You aren't allowed to use your hands. If you cum, your session is over. You go home, no refunds. Understood?" Jean nods frantically. 

The document is almost ten pages long. He is used to this from work, but there, he doesn't have to keep a rock-hard dick while reading them. Not that Jean struggles. The contract is filled with mouth-watering promises and ideas. He doesn't realize his hips are bucking into the air until Tiger's rough sole presses down. Instead of stopping, Jean uses the chance to move against it and luckily, the dom lets him. 

Christ. This is an escort service. Tiger should service him, offer himself up, spread his beautiful long legs for Jean. But instead, he is here, doing that, and it's the best experience Jean's ever had. And he has a daughter. 

Why can't he be normal? Why does he have to be so disgusting? Why couldn't God love him like he did with all his other children? Jean whimpers when he gets close. He tries to flinch back. No orgasm without permission. But Tiger presses down harder and raises his eyebrow. 

" _ I  _ decide when and where you go." 

Jean nods, tries to be good, tries to read properly, tries not to cum against the boot off a fallen angel. Halfway through, he realizes he's crying. No idea when it started, but it feels amazing. Jean let's go of all the stress and judgement and keeps sobbing as he pleasures himself with the provided shoe of another man. His wife, dripping wet and smiling, can't get a rise out of him. But the bottom of a textured boot, unpleasantly rough and catching the skin of his sensitive flesh? Jean's head is swimming. Tears, throbbing skin, diplomatic words, forest fire eyes staring him down. It's too much. It's all too much. 

"Please. Please, master. I can't—" His whimpering is cut short by white hot spurts of cum splashing against his chest. Jean's former sobs turn into loud cries of agony and relief. All those days he held out. All this time he saved himself for Tiger. But he failed before he finished even reading the contract and now he will be thrown out. 

The boot presses down harder, milks him through the oversensitivity. "Put that aside." Jean doesn't understand at first, but then he puts the contract away. This is when he will be kicked out. "Clean my boot." There's no room for discussion on how he is supposed to do that, so Jean leans forward and laps up the cum. Since everything is lost anyway, he moans through it. Even though they barely know each other, he will treasure Tiger for life. "Come here, you fucking disgrace." He points at his own lap and Jean doesn't understand. "Up. Now. Come here." So he follows, incredibly confused. 

"You said you'd kick me out …" He does his best to curl up on the tiny lap. 

"I said your session would be over. It is. Now shut the fuck up and breathe. That was probably extremely exhausting." There's a hand in his hair and Jean doesn't understand the world anymore. Why is he being consoled? "I set you up for failure because I wanted to know how you'd react. This is a one time only event. If you fuck up again, I'll punish you harder than you can imagine. But for now, breathe." 

So he does. And for the first time in years, Jean's rib cage doesn't feel constricted. 

\----------- 

After that, the way into addiction is short and easy. He sees Tiger once a month, once every two weeks, every week, every Monday, Wednesday, Friday. 

Isabella doesn't ask where he goes or what he does or who he's with. She washes all his dress shirts with stubborn wordlessness, even the one Tiger got wax on and his favorite white one, where the lipstick script ‘whore’ on his back pressed into the fabric and became one with the shirt. 

He's in bed with one sock on his foot, the other uncovered because Tiger ordered him to sleep like that. Work like that. Live like that. It's a constant reminder of his ownership, a missensation keeping him hard whenever Jean thinks about it. Like right now. He's hard most of the time now. Mainly because Tiger doesn't let him cum. It's been almost two weeks, and they play bi-daily. Still, every time Jean leaves, he's aching. It's not a problem for him, he will wait it out for his fallen angel. Tiger knows what is best for him, always. 

Some nights are tempting, though. As it turns out, Tiger has an onlyfans account where he posts explicit content. Never any nudity, never actual sex, but everything that is close to it. Jean pays the monthly fee without hesitation, even though by now, he's financing Tiger a second house, probably. 

His finger trails over the top of his cock. Metal. A cage holds his dick in a tight enclosure. Just enough to pee, not enough to feel any pleasure. It was fitted to him, Tiger carries the key. If his dom got into a car crash tomorrow, Jean would be stuck with the metal for the rest of his life. And although he'd never wish anything bad upon the man, the thought arouses Jean enough to hurt. His body tries to swell against the tightness, to break free, but there is only pain, no release. He doesn't know when he's going to be allowed to cum again. The thought frees him. 

When Isabella enters the bedroom, she stares. "Are you okay, honey?" 

Jean nods. "Yes, darling." 

"Why are you in bed already?" 

"I'm exhausted from the day, so I thought I'd lie down a bit." 

"Okay." She smiles and walks around the bed to kiss him. Jean doesn't move his body, only tilts up his head. What would Bella think if she knew he has three fingers in his own asshole right now? Jean's lips linger, before he tentatively curls those fingers inside of himself. 

Bella grabs his jaw and kisses him just a little deeper, sighs against his lips, and Jean slowly works his hand back and forth. Kissing his wife isn't as bad with the devil's cock in his ass. They hold out for a few moments longer, then Jean sighs brokenly. 

And Bella moves to straddle him. Which is complicated because his hand is still buried in his ass, and he's lying on his side, so if she turns him over, she'll crush his arm. And if she lowers the blanket, Bella will find his cock cage. 

So Jean does what he has to do. He moves fast, plants Isabella against the bed instead, and completely disappears beneath the blanket. In the safety of this cave, he puts two hastily redrawn fingers back. Jean will have to thank Tiger for allowing him that pleasure. Then, he pushes her skirt up. And Jean wants to retch. What is he even looking at? Bella helps him work her panties down and spreads her legs. She is wet. Why? Nothing they do is arousing in any way. He's just holding on to a slice of normalness. 

Fuck, Jean wants to recoil from his place between her legs. Even without any light, he knows she looks like an old ham sandwich. There is nothing attractive about her, about any woman. But in the name of God, Jean sinks down between her legs. 

He licks tentatively, then sucks, and eventually bites. Every way to express his disdain for the clump of flesh and slick in front of him is fine. Bella moans. She seems to like it. Good. 

Jean doesn't want to hear her, though. Because she sounds like a woman. How is he supposed to focus on the fingers in his ass when she makes all those unnecessary, ridiculous noises? He devours her almost angrily and thinks of madam Baranovskaya. At least she keeps telling him how disgusting he is and how unworthy he is of any woman's attention. 

Maybe Bella will drown him and he'll be free. Or choke him with her thighs. Is he allowed to go to heaven if he dies eating pussy? Would God allow that? 

At some point, he supposes she's done. Even though she doesn't cry when she cums, which is weird to him. Instead, Bella smiles and thanks him. Jean feels like a failure; he always cries, that's the best part of it. When she's finally asleep, Jean reports his sins to the one man he loves more than God himself. 

\--------- 

Arms and legs spread, Jean is bound to a giant wooden cross. He has been for almost thirty minutes. Finally, Tiger returns. At the sight of his dark angel, he strains against the cock cage. Jean is used to that feeling by now. But then, out of the blue, the cage clatters and rattles onto the floor. He's fully naked now, and the limb fills with blood immediately. 

Tiger watches him, almost amused. "You've been a good boy, Jean. Fucking your wife without fucking her. Protecting our fun little game. She wouldn't have liked finding that cage on you, would she?" He smirks, a latex-clad finger tracing over prominent veins. Jean shudders, but he can barely move a muscle anymore. After all the time in a position like this, he's stiff in more than one way. 

Finally, Tiger releases him. Jean is guided to some kind of bench, before he's bent at the waist, even though it hurts. It's a curved bench, the front under his chest higher than the back, where his ass is resting. Tiger straps him in. As if Jean would run off, as if he'd move if he didn't have to. 

But once he sees what Tiger wheels in from the next room, Jean suddenly understands the straps. It's a machine from hell. It's a demonic box with a clear shell, gears and bolts visible. Extending out of it is a dildo on a stick, big enough to hurt, no matter how prepared Jean is. And he made sure he was well prepared when Tiger ordered him to get ready. Which isn't uncommon of him to ask, even when Jean doesn't get to play. Today, though, he does. And from one look at it, he knows this machine will end him. 

"Look, Jean. This is a fuck machine. Do you like it?" There's no room for words in his mind, so Jean only nods. "You better. It's going to be your companion today." Tiger pulls a condom over his sensitive, exposed dick because he doesn't want his bench ruined, and for a moment, Jean is sure he knows what heaven feels like. Then, his ass is propped up and lubed extensively, before Tiger spreads Jean's cheeks, pulls the machine close, and works the condom-covered silicone tip in. "That might hurt a little. But you know your safeword. And you've been a good boy, so you earned 30 minutes with my friend today. I won't stop this machine before the time is over, unless you use the safeword, though. I don't care how often you cum, how raw you feel, how oversensitive. You're a disgusting dog and you deserve to be mounted like one, so here we go." 

That is when his world dissolved into sparks and heat. The machine isn't rough, but the way it shoves the toy into him bares any care or interest. Jean is speared like a pathetic fish, flopping on land because he can't breathe. That thing fucks every thought out of him. It's brutal. It's perfect. It's all-consuming. 

Tiger watches him with a smirk. For a few minutes, he stays. Probably because he knows how much Jean needs for him to look. The second he is confronted with sexual pleasure, Jean begins to cry. It's so good. He's grateful beyond what he can express verbally, so he hopes his money talks for him. Eventually, Tiger turns and goes to Jean's clothes. He pulls out his phone and wallet, causing the latter to squirm in arousal. Maybe he will send a video to Isabella. Maybe to the priest. Maybe Jean's mother gets an eyeful of her son being fucked up the arse at a now almost brutal pace. Jean's tears are relief and happiness. Maybe, Tiger will end all his lies and set him free, so society can finally abandon him like a sewer rat. Just the way he deserves. 

It's consensual. Jean asked for his master to go through his phone, through his wallet, to take or leave whatever he wants. Tiger snaps pictures. Jean hopes they end up in the family cloud. 

"I feel like you are underpaying me." The sentence comes out of nowhere and Jean whips his head around. He nods frantically. Tiger can have every penny he owns. Maybe that's how he decides to ruin Jean? "I feel like I should set up a monthly payment instead of the in-person ones. Pocket money for me. Give me your fingerprint." 

Of course, Jean does. He watches Tiger set up a money transfer of an impressive sum. When he's at home later on, Jean will go through it in his mind and realize it's less than Tiger would make if Jean paid him bi-daily. He will realize Tiger actually lowered his rates, and Jean will be disappointed. He's a pig and he should bleed like one. Nonetheless, he won't dare change a single thing. 

But right now, Jean is rubbing his arousal against the bench, whining and crying and smiling the entire time. Tiger is so good to him. "Can I cum?" 

"Sure. As often as you want to. It's a reward." His angel smiles and settles next to him, so Jean has to watch the phone. Then, he proceeds to open the chat with Bella. Jean wants to ask what he's doing, but by now he's getting fucked up the ass with so much intensity, he's barely able to talk. 

After a moment, Tiger conversationally turns to Jean. "You will fuck your wife tonight. And you will think of me the entire time. You will call her kitten, and you will thank her. Because a disgusting asshole like you shouldn't be allowed to touch the body of such a goddess. You will do whatever she wants and you will cum when she tells you to. Do you understand? You aren't worthy of someone as divine as her. It's not her fault you are less than dog shit on pavement." 

Frantic nodding, Jean's head bobs back and forth as enthusiastically as his body. If Tiger says he has to fuck her, Jean will do it. Maybe, if he focuses on it being an order, he will actually get his cock up without drugs for once. 

When he's close, Tiger opens a family photo, zooms in on Isabella and him. He rests the phone on the bench in front of Jean and watches with what seems to be great interest. 

"Master … I need to … please, sir. I need to cum. Please. I can't …" 

"You're allowed to cum, but only if you look at your wife and thank her for it." 

Jean sobs, his entire body drawing tight. He doesn't want to think about Isabella while the devil's machine presses that unholy piece of silicone in and out of him with the frequency of a sledge hammer, but it's not his choice. Tiger said to do it, so he keeps his eyes on his phone. He's allowed to cum whenever he wants, but that's not a good feeling. He needs external control, needs absolution. Someone else has to be at fault for his perversion. But Tiger denies him and for that, Jean wants to kiss his feet. 

So he cums, staring into Bella’s beautiful ocean eyes. Jean cries and cries and cries as the machine keeps destroying his sensitive body. It doesn't stop, doesn't give him a moment to catch his breath. He cums again soon after. Jean is hyperventilating. Tiger's eyes are always on him. He's safe. Even if he faints, he is safe. 

Twenty-three minutes and two more dry orgasms into the torture, Jean passes out. 

\---------- 

When he wakes, he's curled up on the floor. Naked, like the pig he is. Rear aching, Jean doesn't even try to sit up. How did he get here? There's no way Tiger carried him all the way back into the living area and dropped him onto the floor. Jean even received a blanket he is now wrapped in. His body has been cleaned, too. He will have to pay Tiger double. Maybe triple. And Jean hopes Bella notices some day. 

Footsteps. His angel returns from the kitchen, places a mug in front of Jean. A comfort drink. A spoon of honey, stirred into half a mug of boiling water. The rest is filled up with cold milk, cinnamon on top. It is the perfect temperature to drink, it's warm and slick and smells like peace. 

Jean thanks his demon and begins to nurse himself back into consciousness. Meanwhile, Tiger settles on the sofa behind him. Once Jean sets the mug down, Tiger presses a sock-clad foot on Jean's face and presses it into the floor. This is how they rest. No one talks, no one cuddles. And still, he’s never felt as understood as right now at any point in his life. Tiger's presence is solid, demanding, powerful. But also kind, caring, divine. Jean tries to suck a toe into his mouth, like a pacifier, but it earns him a light kick instead. He thanks Tiger, anyway. 

"You know, I've been texting your wife while you abandoned any spark or semblance of intelligence you might have left in that monkey brain of yours. She's a lovely lady. I didn't think she'd be into dirty talk." Jean perks up, but another kick to his face reminds him to stay in place and be used in whatever way Tiger likes. He thanks him again. "Of course, I texted her everything in your name. So you'll have to deliver tonight. You promised her great things, you know? And I don't care how fucked out you feel, how much you hurt, how abused your body is. Tonight, you will honor your goddess of a wife." Jean nods. He's pretty sure he can't get an erection anymore, not even for Tiger, let alone for her. Every movement hurts. But if this is his order? He will deliver. "Once you're done, you will ask her how she liked it over text. And you will send me a screenshot of her answer. Depending on her reaction, I will decide how I continue with you." 

Jean has a million questions, but after his monologue, Tiger finally presses his foot into Jean's mouth like a gag, and Jean's brain glosses over again. 

\---------- 

In front of the mirror, he looks normal. There are no external bruises visible because Tiger is a professional. But on the inside, Jean is burning up. He can barely stand, muscles stiff and his rear aching enough to force him into a fetal position. But he can't afford wallowing in self-pity tonight. He read Tiger's texts, and oh, darn. Bella really is into dirty talk. 

He psyches himself up for half an hour, but when he leaves his office to go and get her, Bella is asleep in the rocking chair, their daughter mindlessly sucking her tit. Jean's lip curls with disgust. He never understood the appeal of those milk bags. And as if they weren't enough, those fucking things  _ grew _ once they had their daughter. What are they for, if not feeding the baby? Why do they have to expand like balloons once the child arrives? Sometimes, when Bella is aroused, they squirt milk. Why would nature waste his baby's food like that? 

He takes a picture for Tiger and sends that instead of a screenshot. Jean doesn't expect the answer. 

[ **Tiger** ] 

> Delete this. Immediately. You goddamn sick fuck.

He's used to insults from the man and normally, Jean likes them. But right now, they feel kind of different. 

< Master? 

> How dare you take a picture of her like this? 

> She is exposed

> How dare you photograph such an intimate act and send it to someone she doesn't know? 

Jean's spine tingles. This isn't good. 

< I just wanted to let you know I can't fulfill my task

> I don't give a fuck about your task. You will apologize to her. You will tell her you took a photo, you will delete it, you will tell her you deleted it. Understood? 

< Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. 

> Seriously, Jean. 

> Just no. I’ll see you in two days. Don't contact me before, except to report about your confession. 

< Not even daily reports? 

> Did I fucking stutter or something?

< No, sir. I'm so sorry, sir. 

Bella wakes half an hour later. Jean kneels at her feet, has been kneeling there since his conversation with Tiger ended. He tells her about his sin, apologizes, tries to regain her favor. 

But Isabella shrugs and puts Aliénor into her little bed.  _ 'It's really not a problem, Jean, please stand up,'  _ she keeps reaffirming in a dozen different ways. Jean wishes she would curse him out, call him disgusting, vile names and throw him out. When they go to bed and his hand meets skin instead of the metal of his cage, he feels more lost than he has in years. 

\---------- 

"Yuri?" Jean's head snaps up. That's a voice he hasn't heard before. A man he hasn't seen before. A name he was utterly unaware of. 

Tiger turns and redirects the blow. The bullwhip cracks but doesn't land on Jean's back, which is a tragedy he barely manages to handle. Instead, it lands uselessly on the floor, a viper that lost all its venom. "What the fuck?" Tiger doesn't seem amused about the interruption either. His angered face is reflected in the mirror in front of the wooden cross Jean is strapped to. Surprisingly, the new guy is met with confusion, not anger. 

"Shit. Sorry, I didn't know you're working." Jean's gaze meets the other dude's in the mirror. They seem so similar, he has to look twice. Maybe it's the hair color or the cut. Or their built. Jean isn't sure. But there is a slightly shorter version of himself prancing around Tiger's home, calling him names Jean wouldn't dare utter, even if he knew them. 

Yuri. What a strange name. Almost as beautiful as the man himself. 

"Yeah, well, it wasn't planned. So, not really your fault. What's up?" He's right, Jean assesses mentally. When he received an unexpected raise at work, all he could think about was being punished for it. Jean doesn't deserve nice things, he's disgusting, he's the worst. Tiger helps him redeem the universe's confusion. Jean is surprised by the conversational tone between the two men, but they treat him like he doesn't even exist. 

He's so hard, he wants to die. 

They end up talking about something Madame Baranovskaya wants. So he is probably Tiger's bodyguard. Of course he is. Why would a guy like Tiger, so small and seemingly fragile, invite men like Jean into his home without any kind of security? It makes perfect sense. 

The longer they speak, the more he squirms against the cross. Jean has been blue balled for days, and Tiger already told him he's not going to cum today, even though the cage is temporarily off. But he's nothing but a filthy animal, so Jean struggles to hold himself accountable and ruts against the warm, smooth wood. Almost like a leg. Now he's thinking about the one time he was allowed to cum against Tiger's leg and  _ fuck _ , the memory is so intense, he can't hold back the spurt of precum. 

Being ignored like this, naked and strung to a cross, is the most arousing thing he could picture in that moment. He's pathetic. Sub-human. Not worth any attention or thought, except to use him for their pleasure. If Tiger ever decided to use Jean's face as a cum dump, he'd lose his mind. He'd cum untouched, right on the spot, without any doubt. No idea where the need to be used and abused comes from. But fuck. Tiger exposes every sensitive nerve in his body and stomps on it. 

The bullwhip cracks down. The  _ swish  _ split the air a second before the pain erupts all over Jean’s back. He goes slack in his bindings, every bit of tension he worked into himself immediately gone. 

"I can see what you're doing. Stop it. Or I'll make sure you won't cum for weeks." Jean whines, but the threat is lost on him. Whatever Tiger decides is right. There is no fear. But obviously, the attentive dom notices what is actually going on. "It's my friend here, isn't it? You like it, when people know you're scum. You want to be seen. Exposed. If I were to put you into the street like that, you'd cum from the judging gazes alone, wouldn't you?" 

Jean can't be sure, but it's impossible to deny. 

"He's grinding against the wood. Again," the other guy tells on him, and Jean whimpers. Tiger stalks over and leans forward, head resting against Jean's shoulder. 

"Oh, JehJeh. You really don't like to be good, do you?" The way Tiger mocks his name, Jean wants to burst. He's crying again, even though nothing happens. 

Does he want to be good? What even is good? He shrugs. 

Tiger reaches around them both. He raises his head again and meets Jean's eyes in the mirror. Then, his hand curls to cup the sensitive flesh of Jean's balls. And crushes them. There's no mercy in Tiger's eyes or his actions. Maybe Jean will still be able to have kids after today. Maybe. He doesn't deserve it, though. 

The pain pushes him over the edge. He splatters against the cross, against his abdomen, a crime scene in white. Tiger is his murderer. His demon keeps massaging the crushed bits, milks Jean dry of every drop he can produce. It's a joyless orgasm, no matter how good finally cumming felt. 

Jean realizes the other dude is watching him. He looks disgusted, shows it outright, how little he thinks of Jean. If he could, he'd stir again just from that gaze. 

\----------

Two days later, Jean sits in front of the coffee table. Or rather, he is on his hands and knees. A mug of green tea and a platter of biscuits are placed on his back, and he isn't allowed to move unless Tiger tells him to. He's not crying today, which is a shame. But pieces of furniture don't cry. 

"So. You liked Otabek." Not a question, just a fact. 

Jean isn't allowed to answer anyway. Furniture doesn't talk. 

"He takes care of me, you know?" 

The sentence confuses Jean a bit, but it doesn't matter, he's not encouraged to interact. 

"You can't have him. But if you want, I can ask him to hang out with us. I bet he'd love to tell you how fucking worthless you are." 

Jean can't help himself; he nods, so Yuri gives him a light kick in the stomach. He yelps, but doesn't spill anything. It's a bummer, he’s never had a tea burn. 

"Are you aware you're just paying me to hang out with you at this point? And to humiliate you and tell you you can't get off. Are you aware of how fucking dumb you are? It's so useless. Spend your money on a prostitute. Or, you know, your child. Why would you want to pay me just to call you useless?" 

Jean asked himself all those things already, but unlike Tiger's, his own tone wasn't teasing. The answer is easy. Because he's addicted. He's addicted to the attention, the validation, as broken as it sounds. He needs someone to tell him all the dark things inside his head, he needs to thank them. He needs to find pleasure in his broken home of a mind. Tiger gives him those things. Spending half of his earnings on the dom is a ridiculously small price for that. 

"Have I ever told you you're my favorite client?" The question comes out of nowhere. "Most people expect their escorts to fuck them. I used to do that. Then, you showed up and paid all my bills without me ever opening my legs. Because you pathetic creature wouldn't even think about fucking me. You just want someone to tell you how useless you are." 

Jean whimpers. It's true. He never dreamed of himself fucking Tiger. But maybe, one day, if he's good enough, Tiger will fuck him. It's all he ever wanted since seeing Agape. Guilt washs over him. He has a fucking daughter. A wife. A good, honorable job. But all he needs is that man's cock up his ass. And he wants to be different, but he can't. 

It doesn't help that Tiger makes him fuck Isabella twice a week. She loves it. She loves him. She's happy and never fails to let Jean know. They aren't allowed to use protection, God wouldn't like that, Bella keeps saying. It's a ticking time bomb, and Jean sees his life flash by every month until she leaves the bathroom, crestfallen, and tells him she's on her period again. Those are the nights he's allowed to pleasure himself with a silicone cock up his ass, just once a month. He always sends Tiger pictures. Maybe one day, the dom will leak them.

\------------ 

Jean is at a big company function. He should bring his wife, so he did. But amongst his guests are also a human fairy and his knight. Otabek, Jean learned. 

He doesn't really talk, but that just means he's even better at ignoring Jean. Tiger hangs off of Otabek's arm as if homosexuality isn't a disgusting sin. They are so convincing, Jean wouldn't know one of them is just the bodyguard. 

So far, he’s met the two men in the toilet stalls twice already. The first time, Tiger shoved a remote controlled vibe into his ass. The second one, he made Jean lick his boots clean white Otabek played with the remote. So far, he hasn't soiled his pants, but really, it's just a matter of time. Jean hopes it's public. 

Isabella acts confused by him jerking a little every few minutes, keeps asking if he's okay and if she can help him somehow. Of course, she can't. What would she even do? 

He walks up to the podium in front of over a hundred people as low intensity vibrations rattle his core. Yuri gives him a testing gaze, raises his eyebrows, asks for permission. Jean hates that look on him; a dom should simply take whatever he wants. He answers with a sharp, jerked nod. The toy inside of him buzzes harder. 

It's a 45 minute speech, and at the end of it, he's panting. Everyone can hear it, but whenever his eyes meet Tiger's, Jean smiles gratefully. He needs this, needs this more than the air to breath. The front of his pants are covered in a dark, wet patch of precum, but the podium is hiding it still. 

Unrelenting, unwavering, unbothered, Tiger dials the device up to the highest setting when the applause washes over him. Jean's eyes roll back, his mouth falls open, ropes of cum shoot out of him as if he is a burst water balloon. Wet and cold. That's all he can think about as he tumbles over and hits the stage. 

\----------- 

When he opens his eyes again, he doesn't see anything he understands. There's Isabella, Tiger, and Otabek, all with very different facial expressions. He immediately focuses on the important one. His angel looks proud. 

"Jean, please excuse my language, but what the frick was that?" Isabella looks at him, completely disgusted. Finally memories come back and he understands he's backstage, spread out on a table. The toy is still inside him, but the warm spot in the front is now cold and messy. Bella's eyes keep drifting to it. 

"I came." He smiles serenely, still too out of it to realize that he probably bombed his career, his marriage, his life. 

"I can see that, but—" 

"I need a divorce." He doesn't understand where it’s coming from all of a sudden, but Jean is absolutely sure this is the right way. Tiger draws in a sharp breath. Bella doesn't breathe at all. 

"What?" 

Jean is at a loss on how to explain, so he doesn't. 

\------------ 

Entering the apartment is different now. It used to be filled with excitement and buzzing energy, but when they open the door this time, it's no longer a studio. It's a home. 

Jean doesn't know why Otabek and Tiger let him crash in their flat, but they do. Maybe Tiger feels guilty. He doesn't have to. It was the second greatest gift he could have given Jean. 

A pillow is wordlessly tossed on the floor next to his master's bed, and Jean couldn't be happier, despite all of today's losses. Maybe he should tell Yuri he loves him. That he dreams of them, how much Jean wants to make him happy. Even if it means losing himself, committing social suicide, giving up everything he’s worked for. Yuri is his rock, and Jean  _ knows  _ Yuri loves him, too, or else he wouldn't be here. 

So it's okay. Everything is okay. 

Until the bedroom door opens and Otabek walks in. He moves as if he owns the place, and belatedly, Jean realizes he does. The man strips without any inhibition. He's a Greek god, except for the dick. That one screams more northern gods. 

Jean wonders what it would feel like on his tongue, pushed into the back of his throat. It's a delicious idea he craves immediately. But then, Otabek slips into bed with Yuri and gathers him against his chest. Yuri goes willingly, curves to meet the other halfway, and Jean understands his error. 

He's not a bodyguard. 

He is Tiger's boyfriend. 

Jean's heart clenches. He wants to vomit it out, along with the rest of his organs. He wants to empty himself on their rug and break into the smallest pieces as he listens to tiny moans from Yuri's mouth. 

Are they seriously going to fuck now? 

He sits up. Even if he tried, he can’t feel any shame. Jean really is a dog, watching his master being pleasured, while he isn't allowed onto the bed. 

Yuri is loud, and he's aching. But it's wrong, wrong, wrong. Because his angel is on his back, legs spread for the man losing himself between them. His Tiger, his dom, his Agape is getting fucked by someone, and it's the worst thing he's ever seen. And he lost family members. 

It should be the other way around. It should be Yuri, snapping his hips to drive himself further and further into his lover. But it isn't, and everything around them crumbles. 

His demon watches, smiling lazily. It's obvious how much he loves showing off. But Jean wants to scream, to run away, to tear himself and everything around him apart. It was a lie, everything was a lie. Yuri is neither a Tiger nor his Agape, he's just another guy taking it like a girl. He's disgusting and wrong, and Jean lost his entire life over nothing. 

Yuri smirks as he turns around, get up on all fours, offers himself like a dog or a pig for breeding. He should have been clean, should have been beautiful and untouched, above everything. 

But Otabek pushes in with the surety of someone who does this every night, begins to pound the flesh in front of him, makes Yuri scream. It feels like hours until they finally cum. 

When Yuri rolls over to look at him, he raises his eyebrows soon after. "You're soft. Wow. And here I thought that would really get you going." Jean wants to answer, but doesn't know what to say. He still loves Yuri. But the man is full of flaws now, a cracked mirror, never really setting itself in place again. He doesn't need to talk, though; Yuri continues on his own. "You're really a fucked up person, you know? Not because of your kinks. I don't mind those. But telling your wife you want a divorce the day she finds out she's pregnant? Holy shit." 

Jean blinks. A pit opens up in his stomach, that swallows what is left of him. He tossed away his career, his family, his future for an obsession with a marred man. Jean looks at Yuri with an endlessly empty heart. "I didn't know." 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> How did you interpret the last line?  
> Hit me up with those clever theories, you funky little readers. ♥
>
>> Thank you, as always, to my wonderful editor [Taedae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taedae/pseuds/Taedae), and to you as the reader.  
> I'm also on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/venom-for-free)[, Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/venom_for_free/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/venom_for_free)


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